Like Sunflowers to the Sun
by Naatz
Summary: -one-shot, DEPRESSION, HP/DM of sorts, Severitus of sorts- The Death Eaters put Draco in St. Mungo's. Harry Potter will take him out. As for his time there with Snape and Lockhart, well . . . Draco would rather not think about it.


**Title**: Like Sunflowers to the Sun  
**Author** Naatz  
**Rating**: PG-13  
**Length**: ~8,500 words.  
**Pairing**: HP/DM, of sorts.  
**A/N**: I began writing it on the 31st of December of 2005. I finished it back in Feb 2006. LJ postage was the 16th of December 2006. Sequel is a possibility.  
**Disc.**: Harry Potter belongs to whom it belongs, and that 'whom' is not me.  
**Betas**: Sesshiyuki, Medawyn and Mimiheart. Thank you all.  
**Warnings: Depression**

**Summary: ****The Death Eaters put Draco in St. Mungo's. Harry Potter will take him out. As for his time there, well . . . Draco would rather not think about it.**

***

**Like Sunflowers to the Sun**

**I.**  
Draco has been left with the casualties. Those who remain soulless, who look right through him from their beds, not aware that they should want to go outside.

Sometimes, Draco glances at his reflection in the mirror in the staff room and thinks that he also looks a bit like them, with his blank expression and almost transparent skin, which reveals the threads of his light-blue veins. When he roams the halls, he looks like a grey ghost, floating at a set pace, not paying attention to any obstacles that might be in his way.

He accompanies the Healers to the rooms of the clinically ill patients and helps undress them, maneuver their passive limbs so that they're easier to bathe, then redress them. He feeds them when the mediwitches are off-duty, and cleans their night pots, not always during the night.

The worst patient is the woman with the long blonde hair and the noble blue eyes. She sometimes stretches her arm to his, shaking her head as if to clear it; then she lets her arm drop. Draco can hardly call her _Mother_ here, though at nights when his face is pressed to the pillow, he mouths the word again and again and again until he forces himself to bite the cloth so his sobs won't be heard.

One day Draco is cut by one of the more violent patients. He walks about the corridors searching for a Healer; droplets of red roll down his arm to the black-flecked floor. With proper tending to, the wound will close without a scar, even though the cut is cursed to not stop bleeding.

When he does find a Healer, the man laughs coldly at Draco and taps his wand once against the blond's arm. Draco winces as he feels the burning sensation of re-growing skin – the itch of hurried scabbing.

The Healer lowers his wand with a twisted smirk, as befits a high-ranking Death Eater to a failed one. "Tell the head nurse to give you cleaning duties if you can't handle the disabled patients."

Draco lowers his head and keeps his eyes trained on the floor, letting the barb pass. He doesn't say that the only patients left are Death Eaters who were dangerous even when they were sane, now even more so _insane_. He doesn't say that he's not going to do as the Healer has ordered, because it is the only way he has to keep seeing his mother. He doesn't say _Good-luck in the battle_, and neither does he say _I hope you die_.

**II.**  
Draco is heading to ward forty-nine with a tray of thinned chicken broth held in his hands. He's almost surprised when Snape stops him a few steps in front of the door, but he feels too lethargic to work up the energy.

"Sir," Draco acknowledges, coming to a standstill.

Snape nods and puts his hand on Draco's shoulder. He squeezes lightly without removing his eyes from Draco's.

Draco is relieved to feel that Snape is not trying to feel inside his head with Legillimency. That Snape refrains from poking and prodding at Draco's thoughts shows a small amount of affection, of trust; it shows the small hope that Draco will be fine later, if not now.

"I will be leaving here, tomorrow," says Snape. His voice is tight, and there's a crease on his forehead -- wrinkles that settled there and haven't left since the Death Eaters have taken over Mungo's.

"We'll be taking all of the Healers," Snape continues. "We will not be taking you."

Draco steps backwards, and Snape's hand falls off him to lie at the side of his body. Snape's hand clenches once, then reopens, restless. "What are you saying, Professor?" Draco asks.

Snape's mouth curls into a small smile. Draco can't decide whether it was the beginning of a smirk, a grin, or a snarl before it's swallowed back. "You will be left here with the patients, alone."

Draco takes another step backwards.

"I hope you lose no patients, Draco," says Snape, and while his voice may sound sincere, his face is carefully blank. "Some maladies can take time before they turn fatal, and without proper training you might not be able to heal them."

Draco nods.

"I will try to come back."

Draco says, because it is proper, "I hope you do."

Snape walks away. disappearing behind a corner, and Draco wonders just why his _saviour_ has given him permission to kill most of the patients in the ward.

Draco shrugs, and opens the door of the ward. He has food to deliver.

**III.**  
The _Prophet_ arrives in the lobby, and Draco frantically searches in the pocket of his robes so he can pay the owl for the delivery. He barely finds the needed amount of Knuts, and he knows he will have to attempt filching some more money from the offices in the hospital. He hopes the Death Eaters haven't taken everything, since they were what they were, it was improbable.

St. Mungo's is eerily silent. There are patients, but not many. Most of them were taken to the battle at Hogwarts, never mind their sanity, and Draco is left with just a handful of mostly unresponsive patients.

And Gilderoy Lockhart, the reason that the _Daily Prophet_ is still delivered daily.

Nobody has yet realised that one of the _Prophet's_ owls delivers the paper to the besieged hospital, so besieged that the Ministry has stopped trying to take it back even when it is only Draco who is there.

It helps that their Aurors are needed someplace else, too. It helps that the Death Eaters hadn't killed all the patients when they took over the hospital, but kicked them out to the street for their relatives and friends to collect. There was not much point for revenge.

Lockhart peeks from behind the door of his ward and smiles at Draco. His teeth are still white, but his golden hair is in disarray. "Draco!" he exclaims, and before he finishes the sentence, Draco pushes the paper into his hands. He can read it later, when Lockhart isn't bothering him.

He goes to see Narcissa Malfoy. She blinks at him from her bed. Draco helps her up and removes her nightgown, helps her into a soft, thin robe that will never make the woman look as she had when she was well, even if it was properly charmed. The shape of her body is the same as always, her hips, her breasts, her neck, her head. But her expression is all wrong, and it makes Draco want to flee.

**IV.**  
Lockhart has taken to following Draco. He's just a step or two behind Draco, and the way his slippers drag on the floor drives Draco mad.

"Stop following me," says Draco, turning to glare at the taller man, who is brushing off invisible dust from his short, purple robe.

Lockhart smiles, making a point to bare all the teeth he can without having the smile turn offensive. "No," he says.

Draco pulls out his wand, then remembers that he will be the one who has to patch him up afterwards. "What do you want?" he asks with a sneer, putting back his wand in its place.

The dimples in Lockhart's cheeks disappear as he speaks, "I found a chess board."

"So?" asks Draco.

"I want to play," Lockhart says impatiently, "and you're the only one who can."

Draco taps his foot against the floor and shakes his head. "No."

Lockhart's mouth curves downwards. "Why not?" His lips begin to quiver, and Draco's eyes widen slightly.

"I don't know how."

Lockhart's smile returns. "I'll teach you! Come on, I'll show you _all_ of my moves!" He grabs Draco's left arm and tugs him forward, not giving the boy a chance to protest.

Draco can't believe that he fell for that.

**V.**  
They're both playing in the lobby of the hospital. Draco feels crabby, because he knows they're both terrible chess players, but he doesn't have the heart to tell that to Lockhart. Lockhart, who helps him fill up the endless hours he has to spend here.

But then routine breaks when a loud _pop_ sounds just behind Draco. He can hear gasps and pants and the gurgling sound of somebody attempting not to choke.

Draco turns around quickly, not caring that the board falls and the soldiers spread all over the floor and that he'll have to pick them all up later –

– and sees Potter.

Parts of his hair are stuck to his head with sweat, maybe blood -- but that's impossible, because all the blood is on his shirt and trousers, not his _hair_ -- and he's panting terribly, holding onto the pale, claw-like hand of the man who is gurgling.

Who is Professor Severus Snape.

Draco stares at Potter, who is glaring at him. "What are you waiting for?" Potter shouts. "Help him!"

As if that's all Draco's needed, Draco rushes forward and kneels by the grown man. There are cuts all over his face, all over his chest, and Draco has to get him out of his clothes.

Only for a moment the panicky thought, _I'm not a Healer!_ echoes. Snape needs him, and Draco will do everything he knows might help for the person who's helped him so much in the past, killing Dumbledore for him, allowing him to stay in the hospital alone. . . .

Draco recites all of the healing spells he knows in rapid succession; not exactly sure what they're meant to do until he puts them to action. Some of the damage is healing – but too slowly. he notices Potter's blazing grimace.

"Why aren't you using better spells?" he asks.

Draco shouts, "I don't _know_ any!"

Potter's hand catches him by the shoulder and shakes him. "Who does?" he asks hoarsely.

Draco pushes him away. "I'm alone here," he tells Potter, "and if you think you can do better, go ahead." He rises on his feet and takes a step to the side, looking at Potter while _he_ stares at Snape without knowing what to do.

Potter raises his head, and Draco sees despair. "Please," whispers Potter. "Please."

Draco sinks back onto his knees, and resumes tending to Snape. He prays that he'll survive, he prays that he won't be too badly disabled, he prays that he'll be fine.

He prays he'll understand why it is Potter who brought Snape back.

**VI.**  
Lockhart is almost forgotten in the rush of saving Snape's life, and he doesn't like it. He stalks towards Potter and grabs his hand for a violent handshake. "Harry Potter," he crows, and Potter looks utterly lost, unable to do anything except hope that his arm won't be torn off.

"Professor," Potter says.

Draco absently notices how Lockhart glances at Snape. He smiles widely. "Yes, I was! I was good, wasn't I?"

"Absolute disgrace," says a gritty voice from the bed next to which they all sit, and Draco attempts to hold the man down against the bed. Snape struggles.

"Impossible," Lockhart argues. "It's Hogwarts -- all the teachers are decent!"

Draco catches Potter's eyes by serendipity, and they both make a face.

-- make a face, and the sudden movement causes clotted blood to fall from Potter's clothes.

"You should wash," says Draco.

Potter grips Snape's hand. "I want to stay."

Draco ignores him and brings him two towels from a cupboard in the room. "Lockhart, go show Potter where the washroom is."

Lockhart sulks. "I want to stay too."

Draco abysmally wonders when Snape has become so popular, since Draco himself _also_ wants to stay, but it seems that it is not to be. He motions for Potter to follow him, and Potter reluctantly does.

They walk in silence, and in the bathroom Draco hands Potter the towels and shows him where the soap and shampoo are, and where to put his clothes so they'll clean. As an afterthought, he also gives him a patient's robe.

"I'm not going to wear this," states Potter, and Draco grits his teeth.

"You are," he says as he leaves Potter alone to clean.

He stomps to the staff-room for something to eat. He grabs a piece of bread, and then thinks better and brings an entire loaf, along with butter and marmalade, back to Snape's room.

The stores of the hospital weren't all that well-stocked to begin with, but when the Death Eaters took control of the building, all supply shipments ended. Luckily, there aren't that many people consuming the food. It disappears slowly, and Draco refuses to think of the time when the food will run out completely.

A glance at the clock shows 11; Draco will have to go on his rounds to check that everybody is well, after he'd eaten.

A moment after he returns with the foodstuffs, Potter does as well. His hair is wet and slick, his face red from scrubbing, and he is wearing that patient's robe that only reaches the shins. Thick black hairs show on his skin.

Draco reevaluates: Harry Potter's face is red from _blushing in embarrassment_, not washing vigorously.

Lockhart tells them, his mouth and eyes wide like a small child's, "He fell asleep some time ago." His glance doesn't waver from Snape's still figure, which blankets hide.

Both Draco and Potter nod, and all three of them settle down for some food. Then it is time for Draco to check on the patients, and again he goes to bed with tears in his eyes after seeing the blonde, willowy woman sleeping soundly in a bed that is not his father's as well.

**VII.**  
Another day, and once again he pays the owl that delivers the papers to Lockhart. He looks at the headline, and his mouth turns as dry as the flower-pots that have been wilting slowly to death ever since the Death Eaters have taken over the place.

He goes quickly to the fourth floor and finds Potter with Snape. Lockhart has gone back to ward forty-nine for the night's sleep, but Potter had transfigured a chair to a lumpy mattress by Snape's bedside.

Draco smirks. He hadn't told Potter that the mattresses could be easily removed from the bed-frames. How else would medi-witches clean up after patients who couldn't control their bowels?

Potter stirs when Draco enters, but doesn't wake up. Draco nudges the sleeping youth's side with his shoe. Potter stirs again, then grabs his wand and points it at Draco. Both their faces are white, and both of them begin breathing harshly with shock and adrenaline.

"What is it?" Potter asks when he recognises Draco. He lowers his wand to rest readily in his lap and puts his glasses back on. Draco drops the paper in Potter's lap and steps backward, crossing his arms over his chest.

"This came by post today," he says.

Potter looks at the headline, and his face becomes drawn.

"They're going to come here soon," Potter says. "I won, and once the Ministry stops hunting Death Eaters from the field, the Aurors will come here."

Draco replies quietly, "Do you think I haven't figured that out, Potter?"

"What are you doing here, anyway?" Potter asks, squinting at Draco, who stands right in front an eastern window. The sun's glare is harsh on Potter's face.

"Why should I tell you?"

"Because you could go to Azkaban for breaking through Hogwarts's defences--"

"Harry," Snape's voice says, and both young men turn to the source like sunflowers to sun. "I made him stay here, so he would not participate in the battles."

Draco stands still; Potter's shoulders sag.

"Why?" Draco asks.

Snape shrugs on top of the bed, his face white. "We needed a person we trusted to remain here."

Draco's jaw tightens, and he lowers his head as he remains in his place.

Just another way for Snape to take care of him. Draco risks a glance at Snape and sees Potter leaning over him, holding his hand.

Their closeness hurts Draco, so he retreats back to the staff room for food and potions for Snape's various pains. He hopes that he's diagnosed Snape well, and that he's not making any mistakes, but Snape's slow recovery makes him confident that he's done things at least partially right, if not overwhelmingly quickly.

When he comes back to the room, Lockhart's joined them, sitting in a chair by Snape's bed and staring at the man. Potter has removed himself from Snape, and is nowhere to be seen. Draco thinks, _good riddance_.

**VIII.**  
Draco collects the chess board and the playing pieces from the floor of the lobby and brings them upstairs to Snape's room. Snape, still healing from his encounters in battle, sits with his back against the headboard. He wears a scowl on his face, aimed at a point just beyond Lockhart's ear, resolutely ignoring Potter, who is trying to grab his attention.

He seems to be saying, _stop staring at me_, but they won't, and they don't have to do anything around the hospital. They just remain in this room until it's time to sleep, and even then Potter sleeps on his transfigured, lumpy mattress, curled up in a nicked blanket from one of the abandoned lower floors.

Draco knows that it's only then that Snape has time to rest and think. Draco knows that Snape must be missing his solitary thinking, especially since he spends a lot of time with Potter -- willingly -- and with Lockhart -- forcibly.

"I brought the chessboard," says Draco to the room, which is really quite small for a hospital room. It only contains one bed. Or maybe, it isn't the size of the room that's small, but Draco's faded presence next to three charismatic people.

Lockhart nods, not swiveling his face or his eyes at Draco. Potter ignores him altogether and Snape just _stares_ at him.

"I thought maybe you'd appreciate having something to do," snaps Draco and puts the game down roughly. He walks out of the room to visit the rest of the patients, some of whom have come close to being neglected since Snape's arrival.

Some.

A blonde woman sits on a bed, her right hand clawing at her head. Draco lunges forward to stop her from doing it, to make her stop tearing the hairs from her head, but she struggles futilely against him. The woman who had given birth to him is so weak that she can't force her own son to ease his hold on her wrist.

_It's not fair_, Draco thinks bitterly as he holds both her hands close to his chest. Why is he the one who has to see his mother helpless? Why is he the one who has to care for her, to feed her and to dress her and to clean her, to see her naked body without allowing himself to feel ashamed?

A clutter against the ground causes Draco to twist around, still holding Narcissa's hands in his own. A large puddle forms near a non-breakable glass, and the witch who dropped it is still holding out her hand in front of her as if still clutched it. Draco watches as the woman raises her hand to her lips and tries to drink. She attempts to wail in thirst, but only a whimper comes out.

Draco detaches his hands from his mother's and takes out his wand to dry the floor. He summons the glass to himself, spells some water into it, and levitates it back to the thirsty witch, who is still trying to find water in her empty hand.

She thanks him, in her own silent, gaping way. It causes Draco to glance back at the woman next to him. He leaves. Abruptly.

In the corridor he leans on the wall and takes a deep breath. His heart is thrumming. Then Lockhart saunters through the hall at him, smiling.

"Care for a game of chess?" he asks.

Draco nods his head.

**IX.**  
Potter glances over Draco's shoulder at the chessboard.

"You're really bad at this, you know," Potter says, and Draco can _feel_ him scrunching up his nose, attempting to think.

Lockhart decides on a move. His pawn takes a step.

"Really bad," emphasises Potter.

Draco twists around to ask him, "Can you play better?"

"Yes," the other boy snaps. "I've been playing for years."

Draco stands and offers Potter his seat. "Go ahead," he sneers as Potter positions himself to face Lockhart.

Ignoring Draco, Potter asks the man, "Do you want to start a new game?"

Lockhart studies the board, his baby-blue eyes narrowing at the game Draco knows he can't read well enough.

"Sure," says the man and sets up the board. Lockhart makes a move. Draco leaves them be and faces Snape, whose arms are crossed over his chest, his face wearing a neutral mask.

Draco leans close to him, asks him in a low voice so the others wouldn't hear, "Can you stand?"

A baleful sneer makes its way onto Snape's lips.

He sighs. It seems that Snape isn't up to being up.

Draco straightens his back as much as he can and runs his right hand through his hair. It's gritty and lank and a bit longer than Draco would like, and definitely in need of washing.

Draco waits patiently until Potter and Lockhart's game is finished, Lockhart losing spectacularly and Potter seemingly unable to get a stupid grin off his face. He kicks them out of the room, then wants to kick himself for forgetting the materials he ought to have in order to clean Snape and change his bedding. He grabs the washing cloth and some new robes from the supply closet, then remembers to grab new bedding. As an afterthought he adds to the pile a few quick-healing potions and something he hopes will rid Snape of pain.

He takes no risks. He puts down the vials by Snape's bed and gives them to Snape to examine what they are.

"Mild healing potion," says Snape about one. "Disinfectant soap," he says about the other, which Draco thought was the painkiller.

Draco asks, "Is it any good?"

Snape uncorks it and sniffs. Goes rigid. Coughs. Draco catches the bottle before it has a chance to drop and spill.

"Yes," rasps Snape, not looking Draco in the eye. His back hunches and he looks weaker than Draco has ever seen him.

Draco allows him some time to recollect himself, to draw a shuddering breath, then let it out without a notable hitch.

"I need to clean the wounds," he says, "and you need to wash."

Snape nods, but remains seated and unmoving.

"You'll have to undress," says Draco.

Snape's head rears up and he looks at Draco, _really_ looks, and the baleful expression is back in place. "I can hardly stand to use the toilet, can hardly sit up straight, and you wish me to remove my clothing and wash?" He clams up after this, his lips pressed tightly against each other and his cheeks have gained a greyish tint against the many bruises.

Softly, Draco says, "I didn't mean you had to wash yourself."

"Then who will?" asks Snape. "You?" he mocks.

Draco clenches his hand. "Yes," he says through unwilling lips. "I've done it before—" but he realises he hasn't, not Snape. His mother doesn't count.

Snape shivers. Draco remains absolutely rigid, frozen to his place. His face is cold, and his throat is dry.

"I cannot strip myself," says Snape after a pause.

Without words, Draco moves forward and holds out his hand. Takes a handful of Snape's robe and curses himself for dressing the man in the fully concealing robes rather than bare-backed ones. He takes out his wand and passes it over the cloth, nonverbally creating a cut that would aid the removal.

He's seen Snape naked once. So has Potter and so has Lockhart, two in horror and one in fascination while Snape was bleeding out his life. That Snape was out cold, and this Snape is staring at the wall, his muscles clenching and unclenching as the chilly air hits his skin.

Draco uses the disinfectant soap on all of Snape's body. The bruises look the same while the cuts become less red, scarring – showing puckering mounds where none would be expected.

Once he's done, he bandages the worst of Snape's wounds with the most of a roll of blood-clotting gauze. The rest goes on the unwrapped wounds. Snape's body goes into a robe with an open back, and the healing potion goes into Snape's mouth.

"I'll bring you lunch," says Draco and leaves, soiled cloth in his arm.

He dumps the bedding in the laundry chamber along with Potter's clothes and pokes the water-pressure pipe in order to make it work. He burns the remains of Snape's ruined robe in the intended area, wipes his hands on his robe and sets out tiredly to bring food for the patients.

**X.**  
Potter corners him on his way back. Draco holds a large tray filled with food for Snape, so Potter waves his wand and levitates it out of his arms to float in the air.

He comes near Draco, stalking really, and grabs Draco's sleeve. His eyes shine strangely behind the glass, hesitating for just a moment before literally banging their mouths together.

It's Potter and it hurts. Draco puts his arms over Potter's torso and pushes him away forcefully, but Potter is stronger than he is; he gathers Draco's arms and waist in a hug and puts pressure on his feet so he won't move.

Draco bites. Potter yelps and his hands instantly let the blond go. Draco brings his own arms up and finally manages to push him. His nostrils flare as he asks, "Really, what would the baby Weasel say?"

Potter raises his specs up over the bridge of his nose and retorts grimly, "That adultery runs in the family."

They stare at each other for some moments. Both their foreheads are crinkled with thought, apprehension, mistrust.

Potter clears his throat uncomfortably, steps backwards, says, "I don't want it like that."

Draco attempts to sneer past his beating heart, "Like what?"

"You're not her—" says Potter—

-- and Draco interrupts him, "I'd never have figured it out without you—"

-- and Potter returns the favour, "I just need you!" he shouts.

Draco blinks then raises his brows. Then he frowns, and then his mouth curls downwards. "No you don't," he states, snatches the tray from the air, and leaves Potter alone.

His mood becomes even fouler as he encounters Lockhart by Snape's bedside. He settles the tray carefully in Snape's lap and stays until the man begins to eat. Draco leaves when Lockhart fusses over Snape, attempting to clean the corner of his mouth with his fingertip.

He's not there to see Snape's reaction. However, on the other side of the door, he can hear something smashing against the floor, and the beginning of a voice telling the other to stop, but Potter's standing just in front of him and Draco itches to get away from him.

"Malfoy," Potter begins to say.

Draco leaves him too. He walks past a corner in the hall and down the stairs to the lobby. There he sits with his hands twisting in his lap, eyes fixed on the entrance door to the hospital. He imagines, when will it be opened, and by whom?

"They'll be coming soon," Potter echoes Draco's thoughts aloud while coming down the staircase.

Draco ignores him, keeps looking at the door, keeps twisting his hands in his lap.

"I'll have to leave, too. I want to take you and Snape with me."

Draco meets Potter's eyes for a second, holds the connection. Potter turns his face back to the door and walks up to it. He runs his fingers over the metal, but once they reach the handle they stop.

"How long?" asks Draco.

Potter jumps, startled. "Huh?" he asks, confused by Draco's unexpected question.

"How long will it be until they come here?"

Potter hesitates before answering, "Two, three days until they discover that nobody's been left here, I reckon."

This time their eye contact isn't broken. They both hold it, Draco's hands still in his lap and Potter's floating above the door handle, leading to the outside world.

"Why did you kiss me?" Draco asks and repeats himself when Potter scrunches his brows.

The way Potter's face twists show his loss. "I needed – something," he admits. His face slowly fills with redness.

Draco thinks for a moment, then says, "Fine."

He waits for Potter to come forward and kiss him again. This time, Draco would let him, Draco would play along, Draco would close his eyes and kiss him back.

Only Potter doesn't. He loses the colour in his skin as he stares at Draco. He shakes his head, eyes still fixed on the blond, and he says in a horrified tone, "I _won't_ hurt you."

Then he leaves.

Draco is left alone, staring blankly at the entrance after Potter's abrupt exit. He thinks that it's rather worrying that he's disappointed that Potter won't. Hurt him, that is.

**XI.**  
Draco plays around with the soldiers on the board. Tells them to go right, left, forward. Tells them to go backwards. Then he ships them to all directions again, playing absently. Lockhart is in front of him, deep in thought, trying to remember what he should do next.

Draco knows that Lockhart is neither blind nor stupid. Just a bit forgetful. Potter underestimates him, the way Lockhart insists on staying by Snape or playing chess with Draco.

"You're bad at this," Potter grumbles behind him, but this time Draco has him figured out.

"Which is why it's so fun," Draco drawls while he makes a graceful movement with his hand, and the bishop moves as bidden. He and Lockhart continue to play, and Draco loses spectacularly.

They all sit together, Draco slightly to the side, Lockhart fawning all over Snape, Potter's eyes cast downwards, his jaw set and occasionally grinding. Snape is asleep, unaware of the currents in the room.

"And then," Lockhart finishes a story rather loudly right over Potter's hissed hushing, waving his hand this way and that, "I put my wand right there through his hand, and he was screaming, and that was the end of the poltergeist!"

Draco listens avidly to all of Lockhart's stories. Who'd have known it would be so easy, making Lockhart regain his memories? Put a disabled Snape in the bed in front of him and a chess opponent across from him, and Lockhart _blooms_.

The turning point is Snape's awakening due to the noise. His unfocused eyes settle to his right, on Potter's intent expression, and he asks, "Lily?"

Potter spasms. Lockhart cocks his head sideways, a strange gleam in his eyes and an odd smile on his lips. Draco's mind stops twirling for a moment, but the gears prepare themselves for work.

"No," whispers Potter, pale. "It's Harry."

The black eyes blink and focus. Snape sighs. "Harry," he agrees, closing his eyes wearily, and Draco feels the agreement that this won't be discussed between them ever again. The brief exchange leaves a sour taste Draco's mouth: an intimacy he will never have the hopes of sharing.

"Draco," says Snape. "Make them leave."

Draco exchanges glances with Potter and Lockhart. Potter leaves without lingering, but Lockhart has to be detached from Snape's hand. Draco is surprised that Snape doesn't force Lockhart to let go. Maybe Snape is disabled, but his mind could certainly figure out an acidic sentence to ensure that Lockhart will never come close to him.

"Sir?" Draco asks once they've gone.

"Give me your hand," orders Snape, and Draco does as he is bid. Snape squeezes wordlessly. Draco feels something in his chest. He feels like he belongs. He clears his throat.

"Stop that," Snape says with annoyance. "You are not Harry, but Harry isn't you, either."

Draco's hand is clammy, but he fears removing it from Snape's grasp. "Sir?" he asks. "What – what just happened?"

Snape's body stiffens and he says, "A piece of history, which doesn't concern you." He lets Draco's palm go. Draco wipes it on his robes quickly.

"Leave," says Snape. "I wish to be alone."

Draco complies. He walks over to the door and grasps the handle, which slips from his hold. He attempts to grab it again, and this time it turns. He finds himself facing Lockhart on the other side. His lips are still curved with the odd expression, mildly curious and mildly disturbed.

"Tell me what he said," he demands and straightens his stature.

Draco shakes his head and brushes past him in silence. He won't.

Lockhart's hand sneaks onto his shoulder and he squeezes maliciously. "Tell me," he hisses, and Draco shakes his head again. No.

Potter arrives at the scene just as Lockhart's hands close around Draco's throat, ready to throttle. "What are you doing?" he asks, alarmed.

Lockhart removes himself from Draco. "Nothing," he says in a small voice. Draco thinks that he's ashamed that he's been caught.

"That wasn't nothing." Potter comes closer, stopping right behind Draco, who is suddenly not a player in this any more. He allows his shoulders to droop into a more relaxed pose. He waits to see how this is played out. "You were attacking him!"

"So what?"

"You don't _do_ things like that, that's what!" Potter booms, and suddenly there is anger in his voice, and he's protective of Draco, and Draco's will to see this has completely vanished. He wishes he'd never stayed with Snape inside that room in the first place.

"What's wrong with getting the information you want?" Lockhart asks defensively, causing Potter to sputter at a loss for words. Distantly, Draco notes that Lockhart hasn't healed enough yet.

"Not like this," says Potter. He grabs Draco's wrist and pulls him backwards, away from Lockhart.

From the corner of his eye, Draco sees Lockhart's hand move to the handle. "Don't go inside," he says. "He doesn't want any company." As an afterthought, he adds with maliciousness, "Especially not yours."

"Malfoy," Potter pulls on his arm and Draco, smirking, loses sight of Lockhart. When Potter turns to face him, he stares.

"What?" asks Draco, annoyed and a little self-conscious.

"It's nothing," Potter says while biting his lower lip. They're standing just at the top of the staircase, and suddenly, Potter sits down – still holding Draco's wrist and forcing him down as well. "It's just that – you looked like yourself, for a moment."

"What an achievement, for me. Really, Potter," he snaps. "What is it with you?"

"I promised Snape—"

Snape. "Let me go," he tells Potter.

Potter's hold on him tightens, and Draco is suddenly very attuned to the physical aspect of his being. The metal stair that is digging into the bottom of his back, the sandy feeling from the dusty stairs and railing, and the bite of the chill on his bum.

"No, hear me out," Potter insists. "I was with Snape – throughout a few skirmishes, and then he got injured and I _had_ to leave and bring him here. We had—we had a lot of time to talk." His hand loosens its grip on Draco's, and he feels the cool heat of blood flowing back through his veins. "We talked about you, too, in-between other things. He—cares about you, you know," Potter pauses. "And some of the things he said make sense." Potter seeks out Draco's eyes. Draco shakes his head and refuses to meet the gaze.

"I didn't want to believe most of the things he said, but in the long run, I know he wouldn't lie about things like that. Sure, he knows _how_ to lie, but he wouldn't—" he shakes his own head now, denying some deep truth Draco knows nothing about.

"He made me promise to protect you," Potter says hesitantly. "I didn't understand why, but then we came here and you're the only one here and he says no patient has been killed – he said he gave you permission to kill any patients you wanted, but you didn't, not even one. . . ."

This is familiar ground. Draco tries to tug his hand back, but Potter – in front of whom the Dark Lord fell, who is sitting next to him, his hand holding Draco's body to the dirty stairs – Potter is tugging Draco's hand back down. "One of the patients is subscribed to the _Prophet_," Draco says. "If he dies, the paper will stop being delivered here."

"That's not the point," Potter sighs. "I told Snape I'll take you out. Both of you."

"We don't need you," says Draco. "Go back to that Weaselette of yours. Stay away from this; it's none of your business."

Potter's hand tightens again over Draco's skin, causing him to hiss in pain. Potter doesn't notice, only keeps on talking. "Don't talk about her like that, she's got nothing to do with this—" He suddenly notices Draco's pale face and let's go of Draco's hand. "Merlin, Malfoy, why didn't you _say_ anything?" he asks, but instead of waiting for an answer, his face contorts in disgust. "You're enjoying this, aren't you?" he accuses.

The force in Potter's voice renders Draco speechless. Wordless. Spineless. He shakes his head while rubbing his wrist, mouthing a shallow 'no' with his lips, aimed at the air; not at Potter.

**XII.**  
By the time he comes back to Snape's room, some hours later, he hears an argument.

"Where will you be going?" asks Lockhart, his voice loud and angry beyond the closed door.

"He's going to run away." Draco can barely make out these words. Potter speaks them tiredly, and Draco can imagine the way Potter removes his glasses to rub at the bridge of his nose. "He's a refugee."

"Why can't he stay here?" Lockhart says doggedly. "There are other Death Eaters here, and the Ministry won't kill them—"

"Because those Death Eaters will be retards for life!" Potter shouts. "After Snape gets better, they'll kill him!"

Lockhart insists, "No, they won't."

Draco removes his hand from the handle and takes a step backwards. Then another. Then he turns away and goes resolutely to other patients. He wants to see progress before Potter forces him to leave.

He goes to Narcissa and hugs her tightly, wanting to miss the way she blinks speculatively at his actions. He tucks in the woman in the opposite bed, patting her sweaty hair with halting movements. He wants to stay here with them, even with Lockhart, and when the Aurors come he would be able to say, _I helped them when nobody else would_. It's the cowardly way, but nobody has ever accused Draco Malfoy of being brave.

Draco doesn't know when he'll be taken away, forced again to leave a place where he is comfortable. He wavers before stepping out of the room, but at last it happens, and he makes his way for the food supplies and some medicine. The hospital robes would be useless – they are too thin and too short to be worn this time of the year.

Then he becomes too uncomfortable packing things for his imminent leave, so he unpacks everything, feeling silly. He stares at the room, so familiar after weeks of occupying it. The large mirror on the wall, with its silver frame, shows that Draco himself looks the same. A little more disheveled, a little more skittish, maybe, but still pale with bottomless grey eyes, casting a grey tint over his entire being.

"Malfoy," says Potter behind him, causing Draco to twirl with surprise and face him. Potter's expression is ashen, haunted, sunken. "He doesn't want to come with us."

Draco's heart stops beating for the longest moment. He draws in a harsh breath. "He has to," he says. His voice sounds flat.

Potter shakes his head. "He doesn't want to," he repeats himself. He raises his eyes momentarily to Draco, and their glances _click_, and they realise they feel absolutely the same. Potter takes a few steps forward, walking over the round brown rug in the centre of the room, and puts his hand awkwardly over Draco's wrist. "Talk to him," he asks, still looking straight at Draco. "Please."

Draco nods and shakes the hand off his arm. He begins walking to Snape's room, but stops at the door and turns around. Potter's mouth is slightly open, creased downward, and his entire stature droops like a wilted flower. Draco stops himself from saying anything before he leaves Potter alone, because this moment looks a bit too intimate to intrude.

The door to Snape's door is closed, but not enough; Draco spots a slit between the door and the wall, but hears nothing. Maybe Lockhart's gone back to his own bed and will make Draco's part in this a little easier.

Draco pushes it open and steps inside. It feels a little like walking into a bubble yet not popping it open, because one moment everything is silent and in the next, he's inside the borders of the silencing spell, facing a red-faced Lockhart and a graying Snape, and the sound jumps at him, causing his body to react by panicked wheezing.

Lockhart hears him, and the shouting stops. Draco can't make out what's being said and shouted, because he focuses only on himself and the need to stop and breathe properly. By the time he's succeeded, it's all over. Lockhart's stormed out of the room and Snape's regained a bit of colour.

"Come here," orders Snape. Draco obliges, and sits on Snape's bedside when he's motioned to. His breathing is still somewhat laboured, and with bitterness lacing his shame he thinks that last year, this panic attack wouldn't have happened. Snape holds a mild healing potion towards him and orders, "Drink."

Draco hasn't realised that it was such a good muscle relaxant, but he definitely should have guessed, as the medic-in-charge. His heart slows down considerably, and he finally can take in a breath that doesn't rush back out.

Snape says, "I assume that Harry's told you that I will not be joining your escape."

Draco nods; he can't bring himself to talk normally after what Snape has seen.

"And I assume," continues Snape with a slight sneer, "that he's asked you to talk me into escaping."

Draco nods again.

Snape rests his head against the pillow. "I will stay here. You will join Harry and escape before the Aurors appear."

"And you won't be joining us," states Draco.

"That is indeed what I've been saying."

Draco says, "I'm staying with you—"

And Snape stops him mid-sentence: "You will leave the hospital and go with Harry."

"You'll die," whispers Draco.

Snape's eyes gleam momentarily, but the perfect control the man has over his expression shuts it out. "I can protect myself; you will only be a hindrance."

"This isn't everything, is it?" asks Draco, straightening his back. "You're hiding something from me and Potter. Does Lockhart know?" he adds spitefully. He has the feeling that Lockhart is a sore spot to Snape, just as Snape is a method of healing for Lockhart.

Snape smiles grimly. "No, this isn't everything, just enough for our survival. Lockhart knows little more than you." He sighs. "Draco—" he puts his hand over Draco's wrist, just some mild pressure and nothing else. "I want you to leave with Harry, and I want you to _live_."

Draco glances down at Snape's hand, weak and grey and slight. Suddenly he realises that even if Snape attempted escape, he would not have made it far. He blinks, savouring the sensation of skin on skin, drinking up this feeling which he hasn't had enough of.

"Can you understand that, Draco?" asks Snape, holding on a little tighter.

Draco swallows with difficulty. "Yes, sir."

Snape smiles, but this time, the smile looks wistful. It falters, a short while later.

**XIII.**  
Potter notices the settlement first. He stops abruptly, holding Draco's wrist to stop him, too. "Do you think it's Muggle or Wizard?" he asks, pointing at the slanting roofs.

Draco squints through the soft drizzle that falls into his eyes, but he can't tell the difference either. "I don't know," he says.

Potter grumbles next to him, "Only one way to find out." He shifts the bag on his back to a better position, shifts their umbrella to block more of the drops, and resumes their pace. Draco huddles close to him, hating the way their raincoats hiss whenever they touch.

The village they stumble upon is a real Wizarding village. It's obvious in the way that people don't hold umbrellas over their heads to ward off the rain, but wave their wands once in a while at the sky, continuing to walk.

Draco would love to do the same, but he remembers what Potter said the last time they found themselves in a Wizarding settlement: since they were both missing, they had to hide. Hiding under an umbrella marked them as Muggle-born, a tab Draco would have died before using.

"Come on," Potter whispers in his ear, tugging Draco along once more. "I want to get the paper and get out as fast as possible."

Draco wants to remain and find an inn where they might be able to bathe, but he knows that whining would be futile. Potter seems to like dragging him through England, through Scotland, all the way to a faraway harbour, and from there, to Ireland. He doesn't allow them to stop, only scavenge for what they need. The umbrella they salvaged from a Muggle child. The raincoats Potter grabbed from a shelter in a Muggle city. They summon themselves food and they refill their water flasks with rainwater. They sleep in their coats, hidden in the grass, seeking body warmth from each other.

Draco spots a _Prophet_ vendor at some street's corner. He tells Potter, "Here," and juts his chin at a woman who is sporting long brown hair and a mouth that chews gum. They walk up to her and look at today's edition. The woman, who turns out to be in her twenties, checks them out.

"This has got the latest news on the Death Eater case," she proclaims past her chewing gum. "I only jus' got it two hours ago. Had to send for more prints." She smiles at Draco. Potter is taking out some coins to pay for it, and drops them on the wooden surface of the cart.

"Thanks," he tells the woman, picking up a copy.

"You wouldn' know Snape, would you?" she asks. "If you went to Hogwarts, you should – taught Potions, and all. Real bastard." She lets out a soft, pleased laughter. "Well, he finally got what he deserved, today. The Kiss, death was really just too good for him. And they're still looking for his protege, that young Malfoy. He up and disappeared before they got to St. Mungo's. The Ministry officials think he's got Potter with him, but I don't think so. Potter could handle him, no problem. What do you think?" she asks Draco.

Before Draco can even think of opening his mouth and answer, Potter snaps at her, "That this is none of your business." He turns to Draco and says sharply, "Time to go."

The woman sends some curious glances after them as they walk outside the village. Potter clutches his copy of the paper tightly, setting a pace so much quicker than usual that Draco has trouble keeping up with him. The rain becomes sparser, but he barely notices it as Potter finds a small hill a few miles north of the village and makes him sit. They're panting heavily, sitting so close that their sides touch.

"He's dead," says Potter. His heavy breathing gives his voice a choked quality. "Worse than dead – he's actually been Kissed. . . ."

Draco stares at the grass at his feet, and at the way his pale hands look against the greenness. He has nothing to say.

Potter inhales slowly, exhales, and continues. "I almost killed him when I met him in the battlefield. I was so angry – but we ended up talking, somehow, and – he could've been my dad, did you know that?" he laughs without mirth. "He said he slept with my Mum around the time she conceived me, that they were both drunk, but they'd never been able to check because Mum did some blood magic on me so I'd be my Dad's."

Draco doesn't know why Potter tells him that. He doesn't know how to react, so he remains frozen to his spot. Frozen, back slightly hunched, sitting next to Potter, who begins to breathe sharply. This has nothing to do with their hastened walk. It sounds like suppressed crying.

"So at one point we decided that he'd be my dad – he was alive, so we figured, it could be true, so why not, and some time after that he protected me from a few Death Eaters who came at me and got all slashed up – he told me to bring him back to St. Mungo's, even though it was under siege. . . . He really trusted you."

And only now Draco feels. "I trusted him, too," he says hollowly. He remembers Snape telling him that he's a worthy human being only not in so many words, and he remembers Snape telling him to run away with Potter who's become sick of fame, and he remembers Snape attempting to protect him all the time, sacrificing himself. Draco didn't deserve that. He still doesn't. He knew what might happen to Snape, but left the man anyway, with only Lockhart for company and assistance.

He knows what would happen to Lockhart now that the Ministry has the hospital again. The man would be maddened, clutching at half-formed memories, knowing that a person had helped, and that the person was no more. Lockhart would have to be tied to the bed, maybe in Narcissa's room, because he would raise one hell of a ruckus. . . .

They sit like this for some time under the umbrella; Potter, holding a newspaper absently with his eyes aimed at the distance, and Draco, hands twisting in his lap with his eyes closed. They sit, until Potter pulls himself together and says, "We should keep going." He rises and offers Draco his hand. Draco uses it to haul himself to a standing position. He tries to brush off the mud from the back of his robes. Potter chuckles slightly – just an upturn of his mouth.

They walk. Each one has his hand around the umbrella's rod, Draco's slightly lower than Potter's. After ten minutes of walking, Draco raises his palm a bit so it touches Potter's. Potter's hand stiffens, but he relaxes, looking oddly at Draco.

"I'm sorry," Draco says quietly, not daring to meet Potter's eyes. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry."

He can hear the small smile still playing sadly on Potter's lips. "It – means a lot, to me. Thanks."

Draco sighs in relief. He smiles at the grass under his feet – the smile is hidden from Potter, but it still captures the soft light of the rainy afternoon.

_~fin._


End file.
